


Missed Connection

by fencer_x



Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Possibly Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 14:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13436784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencer_x/pseuds/fencer_x
Summary: 2nd person POV longfic, in which Rin contemplates what he and Haruka might have been. Contains suggestions of (one-sided?) Makoto→Haruka (and to a much lesser extent, Rei/Nagisa).





	Missed Connection

The metal of the chain fence is warm, biting into the soft flesh of your palms as you clench your fists tight in its links with white-knuckled fury—but your mind is somewhere else entirely, ignorant to the pain and honed to a sharp, ardent focus on Haru as you bear down upon him with three years' worth of pent up rage and fury and frustration behind you, irritation and indignation that this stupid asshole _still refuses to understand_.

But he just stares up at you, passive and calm and unmoving, and he’ll lock eyes with you like he’s trying to figure you out, to see what drives you ( _when he should damn well know what_ ), but it will never click, never fall into place, and you’ll be stuck dancing around each other again in the very near future if you don’t _do something_ to make him understand what it is you want, what it is you need.

You curl your fingers around the links tighter—and something flashes in his eyes, like distant recognition; you might mistake it for understanding (want to, desperately want to), but you know better, and instead you open your mouth to explain.

You want to explain about the day you first met him. About how your father hadn't died in a fishing accident when you were five—he's a fisherman, and a strong swimmer, even competed when he was younger! There's no way a few little waves could bring him and his shipmates down. Sure, there had been a storm that struck his ship just a few kilometers outside of the bay—but all hands had been saved, not a single life lost, and in fact: your dad was one of the brave few who'd helped steer the ship to safety, who recognized the clouds for the danger they were—he had been amazing that day, is still amazing _now_ , and you want him to know this.

You'd like to tell Haru about the tournament, about the sensation that had washed over you as he'd pulled past you, like you could feel the energy rolling behind him in an invisible wake, masked by the bubbles he'd churned up. You all but crawled out of the pool, arms aching and limp from the 100-meter leg you just ran, and flopped down on your back, arms and legs spread wide without even the energy to tug your goggles or swim cap off. _'Fast...so fast!'_ your mind is filled with, just those words over and over, and you can hear him being pulled out of his lane by his big friend with the dopey look on his face, the light slap of bare feet on concrete and the soft _plip plip_ of water drops all around you. Your eyes are closed and there are tears gathering at the corners, but you're not sure why: you've just lost, and you're _thrilled_.

A shadow passes over you, and you wonder for a wild moment if Nanase—Nanase Haruka, Iwatobi Swim Club; you won't soon forget that name—is going to congratulate you on a race well swum, maybe offer you a hand up or a bottle of Pocari. But the hand that links with your own and squeezes to tug you up is big and callused and warm, and your cheeks heat with both shame and adoration as your father tugs you up and slaps you on the shoulder before giving you a shake repeating, _"You almost had him—you almost had him! Just that last couple dozen meters..."_ He's going on about sushi with your mother and Gou afterward, because a celebration is in order for the boy who took first place in the 50-meter freestyle, he reckons, and you need to run and get changed for the closing ceremonies since he's made a reservation at your favorite restaurant, but your mind is far away, back in the water, still stuck in Nanase's wake.

You kind of want to stay there forever.

It's another year before you get to experience it again; you're a sixth grader, and it's your last year at Sano Elementary, your last tournament with Sousuke and the rest of the team—and you're gonna make it _count_. You've been ticking down the days, you're ashamed to admit, wondering in your idle hours, the quiet moments under water when everything's so silent and filtered, whether Nanase's still as fast as last year. You make up your mind and then subsequently lose the nerve on no less than three occasions to drop by Iwatobi SC—it's a public pool, there's no rule saying you can't—hoping to see him there, just because you're _so damn curious_ and you want to know, is it the same or is it different, will he still creep up behind you at 60 before drawing neck and neck at 75, gracing you with that wake and that energy just _radiating_ off of him as he powers through the last few meters? Or have the extra hours on the weekends against Sousuke done what you've secretly hoped (somewhere deep down) they wouldn't and set you back on top? If you pass him, will he taste defeat in your wake? Will it _thrill_ him like it has you? Or are you just weird?

Most likely you're just weird—and you rein in the urge to trespass in his territory, funneling your energies into new, more convoluted training regimens. Gou thinks you've gone off the deep end. She's not incorrect.

Your heart is in your throat from nerves and excitement as you mount the starting block that tournament. He stands in the lane beside you, calm and collected, like some great seabird at rest, elegance and raw power just barely restrained—until he shoots like a loosed bolt at the starting buzzer, headed into the water only a breath ahead of you. Your distraction is nearly your undoing, and it's only the knowledge that he'd probably be more pissed to know he won because you couldn't take your eyes off of him for whatever reason than to lose because you're faster than him that pours power into your strokes and sends you charging ahead.

You beat him in the 50-meter race handily. Your legs are stronger, your kick-off more powerful, and your dad's been teaching you this new crouching start the pros use. You'd like very much to know if he's impressed with your form; it's only fair for rivals to acknowledge something about the other they admire, after all, and you have decided that you and Nanase are now rivals. He'll figure it out soon enough.

You get your comeuppance in the 100-meter race, though, when you don't even get a _chance_ to get caught in Nanase's wake as Sousuke screams past you, neck and neck with Nanase until the last five meters. You're _humiliated_ —why hadn't you seen this coming? Why hadn't you noticed that you'd tended to lag a good second behind Sousuke in the weeks leading up to the tournament? Why is Nanase all you've been worried about when you have guys on your _own team_ who can still beat you? What's so special about _Haruka_?

You don't know, but you'll be _damned_ if you're going to wait another year for this chance—and by the end of the week, you've moved across town, unpacking boxes in your grandmother's old, creaky 2LDK getting ready to start school at Iwatobi-chuu on Monday. You miss your own elementary school graduation, and you don't care. Really. _Really_.

He's surprised to see you, you can tell. Mostly, because Tachibana—that's the dopey friend, you've learned; you remember him placing in the breaststroke races—says they're both surprised to see you. You wonder silently if Tachibana does all the talking, or does Nanase speak at all, when the question is answered as Nanase intones flatly, "...So are you joining the swim team, or not?"

It's the first time Nanase's ever spoken to you of his own volition, and you secretly hate Tachibana then and there for inadvertently denying you this thrill for so long.

Iwatobi-chuu's swim team is a different beast from the swim club you've attended thus far, but your father is happy to regale you of his own halcyon days with his teammates, and while you had been a little dubious at the thought of so personal a sport as swimming being enjoyable in a _team_ atmosphere, you're warming up to the idea when he waxes nostalgic about, _"And then there was this one time we snuck into West Iwatobi-chuu's pool after hours to go skinny-dipping while a crack was being repaired in our pool..."_ You won't mind being on a team, you think, so long as Nanase's on it with you. You'll put up with mediocre training regimens tailored to the lowest common denominator if it means you can swim with Nanase every warm day and maybe even the not-so-warm ones.

First-years don't get much time in the pool, you realize, so you learn to make the most of what little respite you get with Nanase. You spend the first few weeks just basking in the thrill of being able to swim with Nanase more than once a year and almost forget that you're not supposed to just be _enjoying_ this; you're here for a reason, here to make something of the two of you, together, because you could be _great_ together. Truly amazing rivalries do wonders to push the people involved to newer and greater heights, and you want to go there, up to those heights, with Nanase. He'll look pretty good on the second-place podium next to you, after all. When you confess this to your father, your tongue tripping over Nanase's name and irritating you nearly as much as Nanase himself can do at times, he just reaches over and ruffles your hair with a wink and warns you solemnly that you have to prove you're a worthy rival before you can go about making such grandiose claims. When you ask, wide-eyed and hesitant, how you're supposed to do that, he laughs and eases up onto creaky joints as he shuffles into the kitchen to make himself some tea: _"Kick his ass, of course."_ You _love_ your dad.

You realize, though, that it may not be so simple: you're an all-rounder, though you're best at the Butterfly and the crawl, and Nanase only swims freestyle. How are you supposed to kick his ass in every stroke when he practically _owns_ the one he chooses to focus on? You still have the upper hand in the 50-meter sprints you do every day; Nanase is a late bloomer (you refuse to admit that maybe you just need to work on your stamina), and he only starts to come into his own just at the last few meters, but by then it's far too late for him to overtake you. At 100 meters, though, you're still woefully inadequate, and now you're faced with a difficult decision.

"I'm not going to give up," you announce one day, whipping your goggles off as you tread water in the lane next to him while Tachibana reaches down to help him out, "until I can beat you in every stroke." You mean to come off cool, cocky, and confident—but you can hear the whine in your voice that leaves you just sounding petulant, and he favors you with a glance that shows the whine is all that he hears and he is _not_ impressed.

"I only swim freestyle," he intones flatly, muscles in his forearm tightening as he balances himself to lift out of the water with Tachibana's aid.

You watch him go, his feet slapping sharply on the hot concrete as he heads for the showers, and call out just before he ducks around the divider, "Then I only swim freestyle, too!" He doesn't stop, but he glances back your way before he disappears into the locker room after Tachibana, and his gaze clearly says, _'How annoying.'_

* * *

Tachibana and Nanase always have lunch together on the roof of the school building. You know this, because you followed them there the first day of school, but you didn't bother to invite yourself along for three days. You try not to think about why.

When you do finally grow a pair and traipse in, bentou wrapped in a bright red-and-white-polkadotted handkerchief courtesy of your mother, you plop yourself right between the two of them, forcing them to make room for you and ignoring any sour looks Nanase casts your way (Tachibana just chuckles and shakes his head because he's Tachibana)—but relish the thrill that shudders through you when his eyes go wide and watery, quivering with desire when you take off the lid and start poking at the mackerel strips wedged in next to some chunks of pickled daikon. Between your dad's catch and the fruits of the little kitchen garden, you've got quite a nice lunch, you think, and Nanase _knows it_.

You go about your business as usual, feigning ignorance, but when he actually _twitches his fingers_ , like he's only just barely holding himself back from reaching out and taking what you're not freely offering (you're not Tachibana; you can't read his mind), you snap up one of the strips with your chopsticks and practically throw it into his own mostly-empty bentou box. He eyes it, blinking, for a long moment before delicately slicing it into thirds with his own chopsticks, relishing the taste with an expression bordering on rapture. The moment is broken as Tachibana snickers goodnaturedly and reminds, "Mackerel is Haru's favorite," as if that wasn't clear as fucking day. You're getting the hang of Nanase; you don't need Tachibana narrating every moment you're together.

You make sure to tell your mother to pack mackerel every day from then on.

* * *

Without much pool time during school hours, you spend a substantial amount of time on the weekends at the beach as soon as it's warm enough to do so. The waves are too harsh along most of the public beach area, but Tachibana finds an inlet with clearer, calmer waters and a buoy almost a perfect hundred meters out, and races between the three of you to the buoy and back again become frequent occurrences. It's different swimming in the more-or-less open water with Nanase; there are no lanes to separate you out here, and if you drift a little closer than necessary, hanging back on purpose occasionally to catch some of the spray from his wake, you can't be blamed, even if Nanase does give you an odd, perturbed look when you drag yourselves up onto the rocks dotting the craggy shoreline and you flop down on your back, spread-eagle and panting. If he takes issue with your antics, he doesn't say so, and Tachibana remains blessedly silent.

Tachibana has younger siblings, you learn, and is on occasion stuck babysitting them—so it's not rare that you find yourself heading to the beach alone with Haru. You have learned to ignore by now, though, the sick little thrill you get deep in your gut when you jog up to the bus stop and find Haru waiting there alone. Tachibana isn't a bad guy; he's just not your rival. His presence is distracting—and not _just_ to you.

With summer break fast approaching, so too does the prefectural tournament, and you're excited to see that even first-years will be allowed to swim races. You train like it's the _Olympics_ coming up and not just a few races among middle-school students, because somehow being able to swim so much with Nanase has made the wait to swim _against_ him, with a clock timing you and all the tension of your teammates at your back, feel utterly interminable.

You only enter the freestyle race—of course—and Nanase doesn't react when you announce as such at lunch one day, but there's a rather lengthy pause as he's chewing the strip of mackerel you gave him (again), and you wonder what it means. Tachibana never explains what Nanase's thinking when you _want_ him to, naturally. When you take too long getting changed for practice that afternoon, though—where did you put that new pair of goggles? You could have _sworn_ you packed them—Nanase slams his locker and tosses you a glance before he exits, muttering as he passes you, "You're gonna be late for the freestyler focus group." You wonder how long it will take for your heart to stop jumping up its pace whenever he speaks to you. Obviously, longer than you've known him.

The tournament is uneventful, as far as tournaments go. Your team does well—the captain, a third year, takes top in the 400-meter Butterfly division—and you lead the pack in the 50-meter race for freestyle but give way to Haruka in the 100-meter race yet again. You're starting to wonder if you lose on purpose, _unconsciously_ , for surely after all this time swimming against him, you'd have gotten _better_. You both sit out the 200- and 400-meter races, though, and instead settle in to watch Tachibana get his ass handed to him during his breaststroke race. You remember him being decent back at the swim club the previous year—but you never thought the stroke really suited him, and before you can stop yourself, you're helping him up onto the poolside and suggesting, "You should try backstroke." What the hell do you know about Tachibana that you can say this? Maybe he sucks at backstroke, maybe he can't float on his back, maybe he just _likes_ breaststroke—but he just adjusts his goggles up onto his forehead, scratching his neck sheepishly and nodding, with a glance flicked over your shoulder, likely at Nanase at your back.

If Nanase disagrees with your suggestion, he doesn't say anything. But then, what else is new?

Fall rolls in with the start of a new semester and puts the kibosh on swim practice for a few weeks until Tachibana suggests you head back to their old swim club, which immediately grabs Nanase's attention to your irritation. You grouse that it's too far from your grandmother's house, there's no bus to take you there, and you don't have a bike, and when Tachibana flushes uncomfortably and Nanase shows no sign of this in any way spoiling his intention to go swimming without you, you mutter that you'll just use it as an excuse to get in some jogging and agree to meet them at the club entrance after school.

You're panting, nearly breathless and struggling to get your inhalations in order when you draw up to the club, and Tachibana and Nanase are already standing there waiting patiently—or, well, Tachibana is waiting patiently, fingers curled at the hem of Nanase's shirt as if he's had to physically restrain Nanase from heading inside to start swimming without you. You raise a brow at this, but Tachibana just smiles dopily like always, and you stomp up the stairs, shooing them inside with, "Well, what're we waiting for?"

It's your first time back at the Iwatobi Swimming Club since the final tournament at the end of last year, and a little thrill runs through you as your body recalls memories of tournaments past, all excitement and nerves and anticipation. Tachibana and Nanase are already heading for the locker room, but you hang back, glancing around and taking in the sight; you've come a long way, can almost call these two your _friends_ now, even though rivals aren't really supposed to be friends, and for the first time, you feel _content_.

So why does that make you feel a little nauseated inside?

You swallow, convincing yourself it's just dehydration; your jog took more out of you than expected and you're just a bit lightheaded. A bottle of Pocari and taking it easy on the warm-up laps should have you back to tip-top form, and sure enough, by the time you've changed and tugged on your swim cap, you've forgotten the issue entirely.

Then you meet _Nagisa_. He's a sixth-year, you are informed rather importantly and in excited tones, and he saw you—and Tachibana and oh yes most definitely Nanase—at the tournament last year, and he thought your form was beautiful the few times he saw you swim Butterfly and would you please please pretty please watch him swim a couple of laps and maybe give him some tips?

You immediately regret your choice to share a bench with him, especially since Nanase and Tachibana have abandoned you for the far side of the pool where a lane has just opened up; you want to join them, but Nagisa is staring up at you with these big plaintive eyes, like you're the _only_ person he can ask this of, and given the way he comes on kind of strong, you wonder if maybe he already _has_ asked everyone else in the club and you truly are his last resort.

You sigh, muttering under your breath, and wave him off to go take his mark; you're not budging until you've finished your Pocari Sweat.

Nagisa, as it turns out, has a shitty Butterfly (that honestly looks more like a Grasshopper) but a decent breaststroke, and you suggest he stop flailing about in the water with a stroke that obviously doesn't suit him when he could be a passable breaststroker if he learned to whip his legs a bit more. You're just at the limits of your patience, about to slip into the water beside him to show how it's supposed to be done, when Tachibana and Nanase wander over (well, Tachibana wanders over; Nanase hangs back and pretends to be adjusting his goggle strap). Nagisa practically _flips out_ with glee, churning the water into an excited froth as he recounts Tachibana's and Nanase's respective accolades in tournaments past and eagerly introducing himself. You feel a tiny twinge of regret—it'd been kind of nice having Nagisa heap compliments on you, after all—but it's quickly dispelled as Nagisa relates how much you've been helping him.

You shrug, conscious of Nanase's gaze heavy on you right now, and remind, "You've still got a long ways to go if you're gonna go pro, though." 

Nagisa just cocks his head. "Whadya mean 'pro'? What's a pro?"

The nausea is back.

* * *

Nagisa joins the Iwatobi-chuu swim team in the Spring. He's a first-year, and you and Nanase and Tachibana have finally gained some status in the club as second-years, but you have to admit you've kind of grown fond of the kid, like a cuter version of Gou that sings your praises at every opportunity, so you hang out with him when you're feeling particularly charitable. 

Tachibana is the one that changes everything. He's always the one throwing you off your game, you realize, more so than Nanase even, and it's during lunch up on the rooftop one day that he suggests you try out for the medley relay. "Coach Sasabe—my and Haru's old swim coach from Iwatobi SC—he suggested it, actually. Said any medley relay team with Haru and me on it would be unbeatable…" He trails off, flushing lightly, likely ashamed at sounding like he's tooting his own horn, and you take pity on him, picking up the slack.

Of course you'll swim with them; you remember that your own dad swam the relay when he was younger—even _won_ —and wonder why you hadn't thought of it yourself. You start assigning strokes, already getting into the notion of being team leader, when Nanase reminds you around a mouthful of rice that, "I only swim freestyle." You wave him off—there are four legs, he can have freestyle if he wants. Tachibana won breaststroke before—maybe he could handle that leg?

Tachibana shakes his head. "I…lost last time, though. And…" He shrugs, smiling softly. "I was thinking about what you said, about backstroke. I might try it out." You're not entirely sure your first relay race is the time for _trying something out_ , but there's plenty of time to perfect his form, you reason. You can swim butterfly or breaststroke—you're amazing at both, if you do say so yourself—

"I only swim freestyle," Nanase repeats with just as much emptiness as all the other times, and you feel a twinge of irritation.

"Yeah, I kind of gathered that," you snap, tossing your chopsticks into your empty bentou box. "And it's fine—you can swim the freestyle leg. We'll find a fourth to cover one of the other legs, and I'll just swim whatever's leftover."

"Don't drag me into your relay just because you feel like it; I'm only swimming freestyle races."

You draw back, brows pulling together, and Tachibana mutters his name softly in a tone you haven't heard him use before. Nanase never reacts like this, and sure, maybe you're getting ahead of yourself and going a little overboard, already assigning strokes and all, but Tachibana was the one who suggested it in the first place. "…I'm not dragging you in. I just assumed you'd…" You frown; what are you apologizing for? "…Fine, I'm dragging you in," you settle for, and add to lighten the mood, "You'll have a blast; my dad says the time he raced the medley with his friends was something he'll never forget as long as he lives. Trust me!"

The look Nanase favors you with does not reflect any level of trust whatsoever, but he stops reminding you he only swims freestyle, and you're counting that as a win.

* * *

Nagisa, suffice it to say, is _ecstatic_.

To be honest, he's not the fastest breaststroke swimmer, but you've been training him yourself, so you at least know his foundation is solid, and he's got a natural knack for the stroke—which leaves you in the Butterfly. Nagisa demands that, since you're a team now, you work on building camaraderie and pretty much flips the bird at any notion of propriety and Japanese social mores by demanding that you all use given names with each other. You wrinkle your nose at the idea initially, but then it strikes you that maybe Nagisa feels a bit left out having to tack _-kun_ onto the end of your names, and allow the deviation from societal norms—mostly because you get a devious thrill from the way Nanase—Haru—visibly bristles when Nagisa calls him _Haru-chan_.

You cannot, unfortunately, get them to call you _Leader_ and very narrowly manage to avoid _RinRin_ —so 'Rin' it will have to be. You can't wait to hear your name on Haru's lips, you think—and then physically shake your head to rid yourself of the thought when you realize you truly feel that way.

You practice your respective strokes throughout the spring months, rejoicing when the school pool is finally open again and training can begin in earnest. It isn't until just a month before the prefectural tournament, though, that you finally buckle down and focus on the medley—and you realize you may have made a rather substantial mistake in agreeing to do this.

Because you never anticipated the _handoff_. You'd known Makoto would go first, with Nagisa up next and you handling the third leg while Haru was in charge of the freestyle anchor leg—but you didn't realize that this meant you'd have to swim, swim with all your might, and then pass the torch to Haru and have a front-row seat for his dive. The first time you see it, the first time his shadow leaping over your head blocks out the blazing afternoon sun and sets everything into dark contrast, the first time you see your own face, mouth agape, reflected in the silver of his goggles, you're pretty sure your heart stops.

You've seen Haru dive _dozens_ of times—you know how pleasing his form is both aesthetically and fundamentally, but this, sitting in the water beneath him, trying to settle your breathing after executing the handoff…it's something different altogether, and you wonder if Makoto knows this, what Haru looks like when he launches himself over you.

Surely not; he'd have never let you swim Butterfly otherwise.

The days tick down, and soon the tournament is upon you; you all handily win your races in the shorter legs, and without you competing in the freestyle portion (you don't need to; you know you can still beat him at 50 and that he'll still outstrip you at 100, plus you've been focusing on your Butterfly), Haru takes first place in both the 50- and 100-meter races. Makoto has improved his backstroke by leaps and bounds, and while he doesn't win either of the two races he swims, he places respectably. Even Nagisa has shown marked improvement with his breaststroke, gracing you with a glimmer of the underlying potential hidden in his lithe little body. He could be great, with time and tutelage, and you hope there'll be someone to help him if… _when_ you're not around anymore.

You don't win the relay, in the end. You put up a good show, but the team of third-years from West Iwatobi-chuu noses you out of the semi-finals. You think you ought to be more frustrated than you are, but it's no one's fault—you all lost time on each leg, even Haru—and it was all worth it simply for being able to execute that last handoff to Haru, being able to glance up as you whipped off your goggles so fast you nearly snapped the band and see that beautiful form at an angle you rarely get to see soar overhead like the seabird you always mistake him for, long and lean and graceful as he slipped into the water and powered down the lane. 

First place would've been nice…but this is pretty good too. Your parents treat the four of you to sushi afterward, though, and as you watch Haru shove Nagisa out of the way bodily to grab for a plate of mackerel sushi that floats down the belt past your table, you think the others aren't too broken up about it either. 

School breaks for the summer, and the cicada calls grow deafening as you make for the beach every day after lunch. It's good to feel the sand between your toes again, to jog alongside Haru and Makoto—and now Nagisa, too—as you make the mutual decision to get off the bus one stop before the beach to run the last couple of kilometers. Your heart is light, the thrill that comes with being young and brimming with vitality and potential spurring you on, and you enjoy this break more than any you ever have before. Your team are your _friends_ , even sour, boring Haru and dopey, annoying Makoto and needy, whiny Nagisa. Your dad was right—you've grown to love them all. 

Which is why you're going to _miss them so much_.

* * *

It's you and Haru, alone on the beach, the day you tell him. Nagisa has put off his summer break project until the last minute, and Makoto is babysitting his siblings, so you and Haru have enjoyed an afternoon alone as you usually do: with you doing all the talking and Haru just going along with whatever you suggest, as if it's less of a pain in his ass to just do what you suggest than to voice any objection.

You're on your back, spread-eagle on your favorite rock—there's a mossy bump that's a perfect headrest—letting the setting sun dry your swimsuit while he sits perched on another rock above you staring out across the glinting, glittering ocean. "Na, Haru…" He doesn't respond, but you know he's listening. "What do you wanna be when you grow up?" It's a childish question, you know; you're 13, now, going on 14—you shouldn't be _thinking_ about what you want to do with your life, you should be _doing it_. Perhaps Haru feels the same way, for the silence that stretches between you is long, longer than it should be for even someone like Haru to gather his thoughts, and so you answer your own question: "I think I want…to swim more. Maybe go professional, Olympic even." You try to project bravado, making the Olympic comment sound like an offhand thought rather than vain hope. "I mean, I know most pros start a lot younger, so it'll probably be a lot of work but…I like swimming. I'm good at it, and just—I think I could do it…"

You trail off; the silence is deafening now, you need _some_ kind of reaction—and then it hits you that Haru always speaks the loudest with his eyes, and lounging like this on your back, squinting up at the hawks circling above hoping to scoop up some poor beached fish, you're _missing it_. You scramble upright, twisting in place, heart in your throat—and Haru is still staring blankly out over the water.

You wonder if he was even listening to you. "…I want you to swim with me. Haru."

"We just got out of the water," he returns flatly, almost immediately, and you spend a few moments unsure of whether or not he really didn't hear you before and is simply engaging in normal conversation now or if—good god is it even possible?—he's making a _joke_.

You swallow thickly and stand on your rock, a good head below him so that you have to look up to meet his gaze and toddle on jelly legs still a little weak from your earlier race. "I want you to swim with me. From now on." You hold your breath. "I want to go pro with you."

You can see the accusation in his eyes immediately. He sees right through you—sees that you waited until Nagisa was busy, until Makoto was distracted with duties, recognizes the selfish bastard you really are. He doesn't judge you for it, not that you can tell, but he definitely understands what floats beneath your surface, and you duck your gaze away, unable to meet him straight on.

You know he won't agree, just as you know he won't apologize for it. You didn't say what you just said out of some vain, unfounded hope that he might take you up on your offer—you said it because you needed to say it, and he needed to hear it. He doesn't get to sit there in blissful ignorance anymore, you've decided. You're rivals, and he's going to know every dark, selfish thought you possess whether he likes it or not.

In the end, he just says, "I only swim freestyle," and you don't have a damn clue what that means, but you also don't bring it up again.

* * *

One week later, after school has started again, you find yourself changing for practice with Makoto at your back, waiting for you to finish. Haru has cleaning duty and will be another hour yet, and Nagisa has already darted out into the natatorium to start warming up. It's a bit uncomfortable, the way he just watches you, silent, and you try to make small talk to no avail.

"…I heard from Haru. About…" He doesn't finish; he doesn't need to. There's no accusing tone in his voice, no reproach, just simple observation albeit with an awkward, abashed thread running through, as if he's embarrassed to say this because it's tantamount to admitting that he's indirectly eavesdropped on your conversation. You're a bit startled, admittedly, that Haru has gone out of his way to mention what you'd said to Makoto—but then, the two have always had some weird mental telepathy, so what do you know about the extent to which Haru spoke about you? You never told him it was private, after all.

Still, you think. _It's not fair_. This was supposed to be something you shared with Haru, not with the world at large. You haven't even really discussed much beyond the coming few months with your own parents. You'd just thought it important…that Haru know. Rivals are supposed to know these things about each other: their hopes and dreams, what drives them, why they view one another as rivals.

But then Makoto takes it a step further and voices all of the things Haru would think but never say—and you remember that flash of irritation you used to feel a lot around Makoto but have since chalked up to childish petulance. "Haru…you know he doesn't swim to improve his time or win prizes or trophies. It's just not who he is. Professional swimming…it wouldn't suit him. I mean, it's hard enough getting him to participate in tournaments with us. To try and make him go pro would just…"

He saying all these things like you need to hear them. Like you haven't already told them to yourself a hundred times before. Making Haru go pro with you…would be like putting some wild animal in a cage, making it perform on demand—when it would be so much happier out in the wild, free to do whatever it wanted. Half of Haru's beauty when he swims is the raw purity of it, the unfettered wildness, and to ask him to wear chains, to collar himself just because you want a companion in the lane next to you, it's…

You know this already, though. You _knew_ it was futile to say anything when you did, but…you needed something. Needed to get it off your chest. You've got a dream now—to do what your father never had the chance to—and you…just wanted him to have one, too. Wanted him to have one _with you_. Just what any honorable man would want for his rival, that's all.

"Haru's happy so long as he can swim," Makoto reminds you with a soft, far-away smile that you can swear is tinted with a note of regret. "It's everyone else who needs something more than that to truly be content." His smile stretches into something a bit more genuine, and he adds, "I kind of wish we could all be as easy-to-please as Haru."

You hate how Makoto is always right.

* * *

You don't bring up that day on the rocks again, and life returns to normal as outdoor practices wind down and the four of you seek respite at Iwatobi SC to weather the fall and winter months. You gather at Haru's home on New Year's Eve to watch the _Uta Gassen_ together, and shortly after midnight head out, bundled up against the chill, to the nearby shrine for _hatsumoude_ , the bells ringing in the new year loud and solemn. 

You're tucked away, all four of you, in a corner booth at McDonald's afterward, when you tell them you're going to Australia after school ends in the Spring. "There's a swimming school there," you explain, mouth dry and words coming out in a torrent, as if you're trying to convince them that it's not a big deal, you'll come back for the holidays, this is just your _dream_ , and it's something you need to do.

Nagisa cries great big sniffling tears through sobs of _Rin-chan, Rin-chan_ , steadily shoving french fries into his mouth the whole time, and Makoto's face washes over with blank shock before melting into an understanding smile as he nods and wishes you luck, hoping you can enjoy these final few months together. Haru says nothing, just continues to nibble at his filet o'shrimp in silence. You wonder if Makoto knows what he's thinking right now and not for the first time, you envy him his gift.

Whether by chance or artifice, you find yourself waiting alone with Haru for the bus to take you back home. Nagisa's home is in the opposite direction, and Makoto professed some urgent need to stop by a local 100-yen shop for some last-minute new year's goods his mother has texted asking him to pick up before returning. The backwards glance he offers you before he turns the corner to part ways tells you there was probably no such text.

You stand, breath puffing little white clouds in the air, a few steps away from Haru, staring up at the sky going over gray with approaching dawn. It's January 1, and you have a deadline with these people, your team—there's a clock ticking down that they can all sense now.

"It can't be now," Haru mutters beside you, voice nearly lost in the scarf he's bundled up with, and you blink a few times before turning to face him. "Even if I apply—it's probably well past the application deadline. So it can't be now."

Your mouth gapes open stupidly, confusion evident on your features. "Apply…for what?" It's the longest conversation you've had with Haru in recent memory, and you're struggling to keep up with the topic and not get caught up in the moment.

He hunches his shoulders, burrowing deeper into the scarf. "The school you're going to." He closes his eyes, and you can tell his brows are bunched in irritation. "It's because you don't give enough details when you say things..."

You're embarrassing yourself, you know, tripping over your words like this and gaping like a fish out of water—but somehow Haru is being even _more_ confusing when he's talking than he might have otherwise been if he'd stayed tight-lipped. "But, I…Makoto said…you didn't want to swim pro. He said—you just wanted to swim, that it was enough…" And the glare Haru fixes you with could melt ice, so intense you can practically hear him snarling, _"You seriously think he always speaks for me?"_ Or maybe that's just what you want to imagine his gaze means.

"Why are you going to Australia?" he asks, calm and still. When you struggle for a reply, gaze darting around in confusion, he clarifies, "Can't you become an Olympic swimmer in Japan?"

"Well—yeah," you manage dumbly. "But—just, there's a special school, and I think it'll be good to get some international exposure." You swallow thickly. "Plus…" But you can't finish, even when his gaze weighs heavy on you, bearing down.

How are you supposed to explain to someone for whom everything is so simple, so black and white, that staying in Japan, swimming _just_ in Japan, is far too tempting, that you might content yourself with graduating high school and entering the layman workforce, pushing paper as a salaryman on the weekdays and swimming with Haru and Makoto and Nagisa at the local swim club on the weekends? How are you supposed to get him to _understand_ the sick roil of your gut that washes over you when you think about losing the thrill and passion you associate with swimming because you've allowed yourself to be _content_? How do you explain that to someone whose very life motto seems to be _don't rock the boat_?

It scares you—scares you more than anything you've ever experienced. Scares you more than you were scared that day you waited, ignorant and on-edge, for news of how the Iwatobi fishing fleet had fared in the wake of that typhoon. Being bound to Haruka like this _terrifies you_ , and you want to get as far away from him, from this future staring you down where you're _normal_ , as possible—and Australia's practically the other side of the planet.

You can go there and find yourself, you think—the person you were before Haru, and fashion that person into the vision of what you think you ought to be, what you think you were _meant_ to be.

"It doesn't matter," you eventually mutter, hands stuffed in the pockets of your heavy coat, and your gaze flicks up to the flashing meter announcing that your bus's arrival is imminent. "Since I knew you wouldn't come."

"…Then why did you ask me in the first place." There is no audible question mark at the end, like he's just said it for your convenience and not because he genuinely is curious. And why should he be? The answer is obvious: because you want to have your cake and eat it too. Haru must understand this, for he glances away with a grunted, "…So annoying."

Winter break ends as your final semester of your second year in middle school begins, and mention of Australia and dreams and leaving falls by the wayside but remains present in the back of all your minds, ominous and imposing as the final sectional meet coming up at the end of the school year. It's your last time to swim with these people, your friends, and you opt out of all other individual events to focus on the relay. The others follow suit—even Haru, to your utter shock—and you feel something well up inside when you explain this to your father and he just squeezes your shoulder and says it's their way of saying goodbye and that they'll miss you; that they just want to be able to enjoy this final race they have with you as keenly as possible.

On the day of the relay, Haru is late, his absence as irritating as it is uncharacteristic, and when you finally lose it and start to _pace_ in the locker room, arms crossed and voicing your frustration against 'Nanase', Makoto drops his voice, just out of earshot of Nagisa, and explains, "…He got accepted. Into a swimming school in Australia." You freeze in place, a chill vibrating up your spine and sending you ramrod straight. "He leaves around the end of October, I think." Just as the summer swim season will be starting in force. You swallow, but nothing goes down, your mouth dry as a bone, and Makoto gives you a strange look as you struggle for words. Thank god Haru isn't here; you're making a _scene_.

You have six months. Six months to show Haru that he hasn't made a monumentally poor decision.

You win the relay handily and set a club record.

* * *

It's the longest six months of your life that follows after the move, and you lose almost every race, _poorly_ —from graded time trials to friendly matches suggested by your new teammates. Everything is different here, despite being almost exactly the same, and you wonder wildly if maybe there's something about the orientation of the earth, maybe you're not meant to be swimming upside down and it's all these other boys around you who've just gotten used to it over the course of their lives. The southern hemisphere is a mysterious beast, and you find yourself missing the comfort of the Iwatobi SC pool.

You struggle with the language barrier only a little—English has always been your best, if not your favorite, subject—and with the eerie sense of _not belonging_ more. You're surrounded by swimmers, challengers and potential rivals abound, and the indoor pool is adequate since you seem to have just missed the swimming season here, but these aren't your teammates, haven't even shared the same swimming history as another Japanese kid might have, and while you know that this is what you wanted, what you need to experience if you want to improve, while you're conscious of the fact that most every other swimmer here has been training for the professional circuit longer than it's been a glimmer in your eye, you still miss that quiet contentment, lazily floating on your back amongst the waves with Makoto while Nagisa (fruitlessly) wheedles Haru for tips on improving his front crawl. 

But the contact helps; Makoto sends you shots of the three of them at karaoke (Haru definitely looking like he had to be bodily dragged there) or hitting the beach for the first time that summer, their faces and shoulders pink from too much swimming and too little sunscreen. Nagisa texts you their training menu for the prefectural tournament and practically breaks his phone in excitement to let you know all about _oh my god we got this amazing new guy—okay I kind of dragged him onto the team because he used to run track—and his name is Rei-chan, REI-CHAN, do you get it?? and he did pole vault before and he looked almost as beautiful as Haru-chan when he dives so I'm sure he'll be great just great but we still miss you Rin-chan are you coming back to visit soon?_ and before you realize it, you've snapped out of your funk and are finally pulling decent times that set brows to raising wondering what's come over you.

You get a text in the middle of the night on a Saturday, the bright flashing screen waking you from a perfectly enjoyable REM cycle. You blink the sleep away, bleary-eyed, and try to make out the sender—it's a 2 AM text from Haru that is as pithy and concise as he himself is: _I'm coming_. There's a knock around 5 that afternoon, and your stomach flips in place as you pad over to the peephole, swallowing thickly.

Nanase Haruka is standing at your door, backpack on one shoulder and suitcase big enough to fit Nagisa—maybe he brought him along, taking pity—at his side. He holds out a manila envelope he mutters was given to him by the school representative who met him on the arrivals floor, and suddenly you have a new roommate.

You wonder offhand if Haru requested it or if the school is just shoving the two Japanese kids in the dorm together for convenience—but you never ask, not sure which answer would concern you more.

Haru as a roommate is both strange and disconcerting. The way you've seen Makoto navigate Haru's moods, you would think it would be the easiest thing in the world, but far from it; you and your new roommate bump heads both figuratively and literally, and he tests the limits of your patience just as you test how much he'll tolerate your selfish demands. 

Haru always wants fish for breakfast, while you've grown more fond of the local fare. You compromise by granting him fish for one meal a day, and while there's no written rule that states you must share meals together, he nods shortly and wrinkles his nose. The third-generation quarter-Japanese lady running the little corner shop down the street doesn't speak much of her grandmother's tongue, but they manage to keep their cupboards stocked with her wares. 

Haru is a natural at the club; water is obviously water the world over, and he takes to his new surroundings less like some bony fish and more like a sea mammal, like a dolphin, smooth and sleek and powerful as he charges through the water from a flying start, besting everyone in their age group—even you—on the first day. You feel a twinge of frustration that these past six months have been useless, that you haven't, in the end, been able to prove to Haru what you left for, what you're seeking—but your irritation is dispelled when Haru pauses at the end of the lane, one hand held up from the water waiting for you to help him out.

You're his Makoto now, you realize, and you're not sure if you like that or not.

You still reach down, clasp his hand in yours, and pull him up before stalking off to take your mark again for another run.

You head back to Japan over the end-of-the-year break, the whiplash of going from the dead of summer to the start of _real_ winter threatening to do a number on your constitutions, and spend most every waking moment being pampered by family or hounded by friends for news from abroad. Nagisa, a second-year now, has been put in charge of helping recruit new members for the swim club, and Makoto is preoccupied with resurrecting the club at Iwatobi High in the coming Spring. "Rei-chan" has also been dragged along, a prim and proper glasses-wearing giant of a boy whose reach probably has him powering down the lane; Nagisa has good instincts, you reflect, but watching the way Ryuugazaki unconsciously orients himself, body leaning a bit closer to Nagisa than it probably ought to, you wonder if Nagisa really had all that much difficulty convincing him to join their team.

Nagisa reacts with vocal glee when Haru offers to help draft posters while you make them run down a list of classmates in an effort to recall whether or not any of them have placed in previous tournaments, and Makoto and Ryuugazaki just look on in respective amusement and stunned silence. 

You've missed this team dynamic, even though you don't necessarily regret not having to be a part of this circus.

You excuse yourself just as the pizza is disappearing (mostly into Nagisa's mouth) and make your way to the facilities, and when you come out, brushing your hands dry on your pants, you find Makoto waiting for you in the hall, checking something on his phone. He glances up when he notices you're out, and his smile falters a bit. You join him against the wall, closing your eyes and appreciating the moment of quiet comfort. No wonder Haru always hung out with this guy.

"…Are you enjoying Australia?" he asks at length, voice warping and weaving in the silence but never breaking it, and you find you don't so much mind him interrupting the quiet then.

"Yeah," you respond shortly; it's all there is to say, really.

He pauses, nodding in the dim light of the hallway. "…Is Haru?" 

You shrug. "As much as a guy like him can, I guess." You swallow and add for good measure, maybe to convince Makoto—maybe to convince yourself, "He's doing really well—getting better, faster even. I think it was a good move for him. We're both really getting a lot of great experience." But Makoto just nods again evenly, and suddenly the silence is no longer a comforting respite but an awkward _blank_ , and you recognize that Makoto wasn't waiting out here to ask you if you'd seen any kangaroos or to find out if Haru has bullied you into having mackerel three times a day. You glance to the side and apologize reflexively in a small voice, "…I'm sorry."

Makoto's response is innocent curiosity, "For what?"

You grimace, because you can't tell if he's being deliberately obtuse or if he seriously doesn't know what you have to be sorry for. "…For taking him away." Your fists clench at your side, and suddenly you can't stop yourself from saying all the things you usually hurl at yourself inside the confines of your own mind. "I'm—selfish, and I wanted to have it all. I mean, he's happy there, he is, but—he was happy _here_ , too. He's—" You wave a hand with a dry snort. "He's happy anywhere there's water, the weirdo. Just…he's not here now, and you…" You trail off, the wind gone out of your sails, and you start to pick at the wallpaper peeling away behind you. "I just…wanted to say I was sorry."

And then there is a long pause, and you catch Nagisa's high laughter, muffled through the thick walls around you.

"…I'm sorry too," Makoto manages at last, But you can't tell if he's apologizing himself, or just sympathizing with you.

* * *

You love your family, miss your _home_ , but you're glad to be back in your tiny dorm room with Haru after Christmas and New Year's, and you dive back into swimming quite literally and figuratively. The beaches are all crowded, even the 'private' little secluded inlets, but there's no one to wait on at the bus stop now, and you race Haru to whatever landmark you can find and back on the weekends you don't have practice, though half the time Haru loses interest halfway through and dives down deep to explore, as long as his breath holds, until you have to practically drag him back to the surface to remind him to breathe. Maybe you really _are_ his Makoto now.

Haru swims as he always has—swift and powerful and beautiful as he slices through the water like he belongs there, and as you sit on a bench at the poolside watching him do laps, breathing hard from your own run and a towel draped over your head casting your face in shadow, you feel something…shift.

It's not supposed to be like this—not the same as it was before. You're supposed to be different out here, away from distractions like Makoto and prefectural tournaments—it's just supposed to be the two of you and racing a water, working to better one another, to push each other onward and upward as you leave all others behind in a glorious wake. You're not alone, not physically, but it's still supposed to be _different_ —and it's not. It's still the same on the most basic, fundamental level. You still beat him at 50, pull even at 75, and lose at 100. Nothing's changed—and you feel contentment creeping up on you again. _Normal_.

You snap to attention at the sound of a locker slamming shut—and realize that the last of your teammates has left for the day, the sky outside cast in dark purple hues as the sun dips down under the horizon. Haru sits on the bench beside you, checking his phone for missed text messages while he waits for you to finish changing, and while his expression is blank and ten, something in his eyes displays piqued interest. Your mouth twists into a frown you can't explain, and you slam your own locker shut—no reaction from Haru, unfortunately—before snapping a hand out to grip him by the wrist and jerk him bodily to his feet, leading him further into the locker room, to the back where the showers are lined up empty and silent. The only sounds echoing about the empty changing area are your heavy breaths and the squelch of standing water under your sandals.

Haru slips his phone into the pocket of his cargo shorts but says nothing, just staring at you blankly, and you growl under your breath in irritation and shove him hard against the chilly tile—which finally pulls a wince from him. " _Why_ …" you start, trying to steady the quaver in your voice. "Why isn't it _different_ now?"

You can see the confusion fading from his eyes, replaced by the dull frustration with reality that seems to be his default setting. "…What?"

You lean forward, searching his face desperately, certain that there has to be some spark of interest, challenge there that you've missed, something that tells you _yes_ this was the right choice—mostly because this was the _only_ choice, and you won't be able to handle it if it turns out to be another dead end. "Why is it still the same as before? Why are we still… Just, I thought…"

He cuts his gaze to the side, shutting you out. "…I don't understand. What's supposed to be different?"

" _You're_ sup—" you start, then bite your tongue, growling to yourself. You really wished you'd rehearsed this before, because there's so much to say, so much to explain, and you're not ready to have this conversation in the empty showers of the locker room on a Tuesday evening. "I just…I need— _more_. Than this. I need something _different_. But you're still the same—when you swim, it's…" _It's supposed to be different when you swim with just me_ , you want to say, but you can't bring your mouth to form the words.

You slam a fist against the ceramic tile by his head and stifle a frustrated sob—you're not crying, you're _not_ , but the emotion and frustration welling up within you needs an outlet, and you really wish he weren't here right now, witnessing this.

Haru gives a soft _tsk_ under his breath, like your display is the most irritating thing he's seen in a long while (which is bull; Nagisa's crocodile tears seeing the two of you off at Narita was definitely worse), and with a soft huff of resignation, he slides his fingers up, brushing lightly over the baggy t-shirt you've pulled on and skittering over the exposed skin of your neck to rest lightly at the nape as he steadies himself—cocking his head just to the right and dropping his chin a hair as he presses his lips to yours, light and fleeting with a soft lap of his tongue sending a jolt through you that travels straight down your spine and tightens your swimsuit around you.

He hangs there for a moment, like a snapshot, that brilliant arc as he leaps overhead and casts everything around you in a blur as you focus on him and nothing else, and plays with the bits of hair feathering the base of your neck before he releases his breath with, "…This was easier with Makoto." And something like shock or revulsion or some marriage of the two must flash on your features, because he adds with a snort—a _snort_ —"I mean I never had to explain what I meant, or do what was expected of me." His expression is that blank canvas again. "It's annoying."

You're still processing—will probably be processing for a long time yet—and this is definitely different, but you don't think this is quite what you meant by your childish display. But this is what Haru is giving you, what he's determined you want—and he always _always_ gives you what you demand and nothing more, has forever been weak against you in this respect, so maybe somewhere, on some level, you did want this. So you try it on for size, like a new swimsuit, easing into it and testing the give and stretch of your relationship.

You fuck. Not the first night, because you're both exhausted—teenagers or not—from the laps you'd had to run after practice and the way the sticky summer air saps your stamina, but you get around to it. He's surprisingly agreeable to the notion of touching and being touched, never once complaining or critiquing, and you learn to navigate the new expressions you're privy to now with relative ease, distracting him with hands and lips and teeth and fingers from thinking too much about the water, Japan, Iwatobi-chuu, Makoto. Each thrust and roll of your hips against his comes with eerie familiarity, like swimming in the sheets, except the sheets are a rarity, and it's usually the shower or against the arm of your dingy little couch or one time when you promised to lock up, professing an urge for some after-hours laps, in the locker room like the first time.

Haru is frustratingly silent through it all, his passion only evident in the flash of white as he bites his lip or the flush creeping across his cheeks and neck and chest or the subtle cant he gives his hips when he's not satisfied with your angle or tempo. You think that maybe if you ordered hint to speak up, to whine and moan his lust for you to hear, he might oblige—but you'd rather draw it out, because there's no challenge in _telling_ Haru what to do, no joy in demanding. It's what you might do if you were faced with no other choice—but you're not there yet, not cornered with some impossible decision, so you just toss him down onto his back, wishing you had tatami mats so you might be able to see the little crosshatch pattern pressed into the skin of his back during the shower you'll take later and remember _I put that there_.

And for a while, it works. For a good two months, you're distracted enough with everything Haru can give you in the pool and out of it that you forget that this isn't the difference you wanted, merely the one you _needed_.

It isn't until the end of February, just as there's a chill crisping at your nose in the early mornings, telling you there'll soon be no more dips before practice, that you realize this isn't going to work out after all.

You tell Haru as such over breakfast—mackerel and miso soup, one of the staples you've actually come to enjoy—and after a long pause as he chews his fish, staring into his bowl, Haru nods, allowing evenly, "I'll let my mother know; I can probably make it back in time for the new semester in April."

The disposable chopsticks in your hand snap in two. "…So that's it?" you manage quietly, voice quivering with rage and confusion. "I tell you to come with me, and you come. I tell you it's not working, and you leave?" The remains of your chopsticks clatter to the table, but he simply calmly sips his miso. "You're not even gonna argue, not even gonna defend yourself." You slam a fist down to get a reaction from him. "What the fuck are you even _here_ for, then?" You don't add _What the fuck are you even here with me for?!_

Haru lets you scream yourself raw before calmly pointing out that he'd come to the same conclusion, simply avoiding saying anything because—like most everything—it was too much trouble. But if you feel the same way, then obviously there's no point in continuing fruitless efforts. "This isn't where I'm meant to be, I guess."

You stare down at the table, studying the wood grain while you back rises and falls with deep breaths. _Not where he's meant to be_. And that just _burns you up_ —"I…am so fucking _tired_ of you being so damn blasé about everything." You slap a hand to your chest. "I'm not Makoto, you get it? I can't read your mind or—or say the things that you won't say _for_ you—"

"You just did, though," he points out, calmly setting his chopsticks to the side and clapping his hands together as he mutters his thanks for the meal to no one in particular.

"That's not—" You start, then curl your lip in a snarl. "I'm— _blind_. And _stupid_." Haru doesn't interrupt. "And I'm _not Makoto_. I need you—" He winces inwardly at the way his voice breaks on _need_ , "—to be direct with me, to tell me shit like this. Don't just do what some guy tells you to do; do what _you want to do_."

"I did."

"…Huh?"

He repeats himself, a rare feat: "I did. What I wanted to do." He gathers his dishes and pushes his chair out to bring them over to the sink. "It just didn't work out in the end." And that, it seems, is all that really matters at this point: it didn't work out. Maybe he wanted to swim with you so much, he was willing to fly halfway around the world to do it, was willing to tolerate a few waves marring the otherwise calm surface of his existence—but ultimately, you have a dream, you have ambition, and Haru…he just wants to swim. He wants contentment, and you fear and loathe it. Rivals, indeed.

You growl deep in the back of your throat and grab his hand, dragging him out the door—and don't stop until you reach the swim club. It's early, too early for even the morning swimming lesson classes to be gathering, and you convince the custodian that you have your coach's permission to do some early morning private training.

You release him and stalk over to one of the starting blocks, staring out across the placid surface of the pool with a dark glint in your eye as you whip off your shirt and shuck your trackpants. "If you're going back…then this is the last time. I'm not waiting for you again." You clench your jaw. "…It was hard enough the first time, and I…I can't do it again." You toss your clothes against the bench and raise an arm, stretching sleep-stiffened muscles. "So we're going to race here—100-meter freestyle—and then you're going to go back to Japan." You relax your arms again and glance at him over your shoulder. "And then you're not going to see me again until I'm on the Olympic starting block."

You pick a lane and mount up, snapping the band of your goggles against the cap you've tugged on as you adjust the straps.

"…Then when will you see me again?" You glance over your shoulder, brows furrowed, and he takes a step toward you—he hasn't even disrobed yet. "If I won't see you again until you're an Olympic swimmer, then when will you see me again?"

And you want, so badly, _so_ badly, to snap _"never"_ —because everything about Haru pisses you off right now. The talent he has in spades but wastes on weekend beach trips and meaningless school tournaments; the way he never speaks his mind, just going with the flow and leaving others to divine his intentions or speak up for him; the blank expression he always wears, no ripples on his surface, quiet and placid and content.

You snap the band on your goggles again and shift forward, toes gripping the edge. "…In my dreams." You tug the goggles down and wince as everything takes on a soft, dark blur. At least this way, Haru won't see that you're about to cry.

"And what if I don't race you?"

It's not a challenge, not really, but you can hear the shift in his tone, like he's genuinely curious what you plan to do if he doesn't go along with this willingly, doesn't give you what you want, and you whirl in place, teetering wildly for a moment, before jumping off the block and whipping your goggles off. Fine, let him see how bloodshot your eyes are.

"I'm staying here, Haru," you remind him thickly, and point to the pool behind you. "Whether you get in the water right now or not—you're going back to Japan and I'm staying. If you don't have any reason to be here, then fuck off."

He follows your gesture, looking out over the pool; it's still dim, only a few lights on for the custodian and the sun not yet risen. "…I miss the relay."

You start, put off by his sudden shift in subject. "…I fucking hated the relay."

He gives you a look. "You're the one who was gung-ho about it. You said you loved it." His expression is quirky, very un-Haru, and you hate the lump it causes to form in your throat—and your suit—because _different_.

"It…was okay," you allow grudgingly, gritting your teeth because he's throwing you off, banking the fires you _need_ raging so that you can get through this. "…I liked—" And fuck it; in for a penny, in for a pound. "I mostly liked…the hand-off."

He frowns. "The what?"

"When I touched the wall." You wave in the direction of the pool. "And I'd look up—and you'd be right there, diving over me. It was…" You lick your lips and nod; maybe you've wanted him on that deeper, darker level for a long time. "I miss that."

"…You miss watching me dive?"

" _No_ ," you grind out, frustrated; you really wish he would just _understand_. "I miss that _moment_ I miss… It felt like we were connected." You reach up and scratch the back of your neck sheepishly. "…I dunno about the others, but for me…it was great." It sounds so simple, so benign when you say it out loud, and you wish you could _show_ him, prove it to him, but the time for that is long past. "I wanted to experience that again some day. So I needed you with me."

"So join the medley group," he suggests flippantly, and you know he's not trying to be an obtuse asshole—it's just natural.

"I needed _you_ with me," you snap, eyes flashing, and he has the good grace to at least look a bit taken aback. You snort dryly at this reaction. "Do you have any idea how many hours I put in on my Butterfly before you got here, just so I'd be ready for relay practice with you?" Haru glances away, gaze growing distant in that way that tells you all he's doing is thinking how _annoying_ this conversation is. "And you can think it's annoying all you want—just so you know, I feel the same way. I hate this, that I can't have everything I want, no matter how hard I work—I can't swim to the best of my ability, can't _be_ the best I can without _you_ and _this_." You wave a hand around the natatorium. "It's hollow without you…but it's not enough without this."

Even if you gave up Australia, you'd just be stuck back in Japan, in danger of resting on laurels and contenting yourself with _less_. You'd have your dream, and Haru would have his talent—and there would be a figurative ocean separating you instead of a literal one.

Haru's expression is blank, featureless, and you can hear him thinking, _So what am I supposed to do about it?_

You're getting the hang of this, you silently offer to Makoto—and open your mouth to answer his unspoken question.

* * *

"No—you _are_ going to swim. _For me_."

And suddenly everything is everything again. Your father died years and years ago, he never ruffled your hair and told you to kick Haru's ass, you never watched Haru and Nagisa wrestle over a plate of mackerel sushi, and you never jerked Haru off in the showers of an empty swim club after hours.

You've always blamed everything— _everything_ —on your father dying. Not your father himself, because you _loved_ your dad, miss him with every fiber of your being, and you've always wanted to do his dream proud, but nothing will ever be right—you'll never ever be able to have that dream _and_ Haru. You'll have to give up on one to have the other, you're finally realizing, and it's just not _fucking_ fair.

You know you're lying about the tournament, about why you need to race him. Even if you beat him, even if you finally edge him out properly in that last few dozen meters, you still won't be able to move on, because it's never been _about_ winning or losing. And father dead or alive, Haru with you or against you, faster or slower, it won't change anything: you can't have the best of both worlds. 

You have to make that impossible decision: go after the thing you want…or the thing you _need_.

It's selfish, but it's all you know, and now you see that it's all you could ever have done. You would _always_ have wound up, one way or another, forcing your desires on Haru, and Haru would have always wound up accepting. Maybe—maybe if Haru had pushed back at some point, struggled against you and rejected you, maybe then you could have broken free of him, but Haru is like mud, like quicksand, and you are helpless to escape his thrall. The harder you fight for his attention, his _everything_ , the more he gives and gives—and you _hate that_ , because there's no other way it can be, could ever _have_ been. 

You're tired of giving Haru any semblance of choice in the matter. You'll have him swimming with you one way or another, and if you feel a twinge of regret at never being able to see that sight again, Haruka leaping long and lean and beautiful just overhead; if you have to fight back a defeated whimper that, at best, you'll have to watch that sight from the next lane over; if you're broken, remembering in patches, slips of memory like recalling a dream, the slide of your fingers over sweat-slicked skin and the welcome heat of breath against your neck that still smells faintly of the mackerel you'd had for a late breakfast—then you don't show it.

It’s something from another lifetime, after all.


End file.
